December 27, 2011

Migration

My days are quiet now,
all my inquiries have ceased.
I no longer think
about traffic or work,
but stare straight ahead
at the sea.
Gulls fly by
on their way
somewhere else.
Knowing their heading,
they rest in the sand,
a thousand or more
face into the wind.
If spooked, they will all rise,
circling and keening,
'til they settle again.
No one knows
just where they go
or where, it is
they have been.